


α not Ω

by Houseplant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Child Abuse, Extreme liberties with medical devices and practices, Gender Issues, Hence the coinage of transdynamic, I am reminding you of that now, Internalised dynamic hatred, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Misgendering, Misogyny, Mummy Holmes is not a very good parent, Neither is their father, Not for some time at least, Omegaverse, Other, Probably eating disorders, Recreational drug usage, Self harm though it may not necessarily be through cutting, Sexual assualt, Sherlock is trans, Social Issues, This is a work of fiction, This is going to get dark once we hit university years, This will not be your typical social justice 'everything is a-okay' fic, Transphobia, University, We're going to tag that now and see what happens later, also not mtf or ftm, but no one really likes that, internalised self loathing, or believe that he is, self medication, transdynamic omegaverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseplant/pseuds/Houseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an Ω at the end on all of Sherlock's identification, where there should be an α.</p><p> </p><p>  <i> This story follows a young Sherlock through his years living in a society that refuses to listen to his <span class="u">voice</span>, instead only seeing an identification symbol, and ignoring the rest for that.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All is not well

"There's no reason to go," A seven-year old Sherlock pleads with his standoffish mother, as the nanny bundles him up for the day. "I _know_ what I am! The doctors are sstupid, we don't have to go if I already _know_." He's still getting over his childhood lisp, a hesitation on the softer sounds, and his mother simply 'tuts' at him as the nanny does up his coat. Fourteen year old Mycroft stands back on the stairwell, knowing full well Sherlock's due for a strop from the way the young boy puffs out his cheeks and glowers at everyone near. Mycroft already suspects what the doctor's appointment will tell them, but he's been told to stay back, to wait for the piano tutor that will arrive in Mummy and Sherlock's absence.

So Mycroft says nothing, leaning back on the bannister, knowing that their driver will curse that 'idiot genius Holmes child' loudly at the pub later, as Mycroft knows when Sherlock's moods will swing, when his young temper will burst. Today, he knows it will be the second Sherlock has been strapped in the back of the car, Mummy sat to his right. Mycroft knows this long before he sees Mummy put her hand on the small of Sherlock's back, forcibly guiding him out the door without so much as a word of thanks to the hired help, and not a word of farewell for Mycroft.

That's okay. Mycroft's fourteen, an Alpha heir to the Holmes estate. He knows being alone is only temporary.

\---  


The driver is more than ready to be rid of Miss Holmes and Sherlock when they pull up to the kerb beside the pediatrician's. It's a fancy office, one that displays the wealth its patients have on the outside, glittering stonework reflecting the light. He could almost enjoy it if it weren't for the quite frankly, horrifying screams wrenched from the adolescent's throat once he was strapped in.

The youngest Holmes had always hated visits to the doctors', ever since he was a young, squalling babe with lungs that filled up with fluid far too quickly. Sherlock's first and second years of life had been spent more in the hospital, than at home. The scent memory and flashes of faceless men being utterly incompetent still plagued him; the same antiseptic was used in the pediatrician's office, and everyone thought him mad when he would articulate it.

Sherlock tried everything in a child's repertoire to get his way. He tried screaming, sobbing until his mother told him to 'knock that nonsense off' with a firm hand across the face. It worked for all of three minutes, and when a reprieve was hopefully in sight, he attempted to undo the car door, only to be thwarted by child safety locks. (Until, of course, in later years when Sherlock would go through the Holmes' armada of private cars, dismantling several locking mechanisms for his own perverse amusement.) They had gotten to the hair-pulling portion of attention getting, when the blessed medical office was in sight.

To say that the driver was relieved to be rid of the two Holmes' would have been an understatement, even as he politely waved them off, and went to search for a spot in the lot to wait.  


\----  


Sherlock glowered at the other children in the waiting room, his mother ignoring all of them in favour of flipping listlessly through some out-of-date and well worn magazine on home improvement. Sherlock glanced at it once, decided it wasn't worth his time, and kicked his feet against the seat.

"Stop that, Sherlock," his mother hissed, not bothering to glance at him even once.

"We don't have to be here," he retorted, words crisp and precise, spat out with some effort.

"Shhh."  


\----  


The routine examination went smoothly, even if Sherlock had torn up the flimsy paper covering the examination table when he'd received several jabs. He thought they were finished, and made to jump off said table to re-gather his clothes and be rid of the itchy, paper-towel like gown they'd forced him into, when his mother shook her head.

"I'd also like to have a early dynamic inspection done, as well," Mummy Holmes cut in.

"Children tend not to show signs of their dynamic until they're twice Sherlock's age, at least," Dr Stirling informed them, lips pursed into a frown.

"If he was a normal child, I might be inclined to agree with you. Sherlock is a Holmes, and Holmes' have a habit of presenting early." The authority rang clear in Mummy Holmes' voice, and Sherlock sighed as he was motioned to remain sat on the table at the very time Dr Stirling agreed.

"Very well, then. I'll have a nurse be round in a minute with the equipment."

\---  


"We can go home," Sherlock insists once the doctor's left the room. "I've already _told_ you I'm not a beta or an omega. All of this is a waste of time."

"Hush," is the only thing his mother says to him, before the door opens again, and the beta nurse has brought in an internal ultrasound device. Thankfully the technology has been updated since when Mycroft was born, otherwise they would have had to travel to the nearest hospital to have the testing done. As it was, the nurse looked very apologetic, setting everything up under two watchful sets of Holmsian eyes and with careful instruction from Dr Stirling himself.

"Alright, Sherlock, I'm going to have to ask you to lie on your stomach for this," Dr Stirling's voice was apologetic as he snapped on two new pairs of latex-free vinyl gloves, picking up the wand-like end of the ultrasound, slathering on a thick, greasy looking lubrication.

"I don't--"

"Miss Holmes, you may need to help us hold him down, or this could injure him. Are you _really_ certain you want this examination done today?"

"Obviously I'm certain, otherwise I wouldn't have requested it," Mummy Holmes snapped, vacating her seat to help hold down her son, who, in the burden of genius, had already figured out exactly _where_ that probe was going to go.

"There isn't any need for _that!_ " Sherlock called as he thrashed against the two holding him down. He wasn't overly strong for a seven year old, but his refusal to cooperate meant that doing things the 'easy way' would more than likely cause serious (and possibly permanent) internal injuries. Dr Stirling simply sighed heavily, resigned to doing what his well-paying patients wished, setting down the wand on a sterilised surface, binning his current gloves, and pulling a filled syringe from one of the locked drawers.

"My apologies, but we can't have you thrashing about like that," was the last thing Sherlock heard before he was administered yet another jab, and his muscles spasm, then go limp. Unresponsive.

The rest of the exam goes fine by the adults standards, but to Sherlock it's the absolute worst. He's young and isn't thought to have a voice, a say in his own body or identity, and the probe stuck up his anus shows organs that he'll forever deny, even when in a drugged out fugue.

He won't know what 'rape' truly means 'til much later in his life, and even then he'll be too stubborn to apply it to his own experience.

It doesn't affect him as much as the unwanted 'Ω' on his identification does.

It's wrong.

It's all so, so very _wrong_.

\--

Mummy cheers when they walk back through the doors of the Holmes Estate. "An Omega!" She declares, as if it were the greatest gift anyone had ever been given. "Both sons, virile and beautiful! Oh, I'll have to call the relatives -- we ought to have a banquet in celebration!"

So caught up in her jubilation is she, that she misses the miserable glance that passes from her youngest to her eldest, and the small nod of acknowledgement.

All is not well.


	2. The Banquet

The banquet is a horrible affair. 

Mummy buys him a new suit, weeks in advance, and the tailor's starched it so that every step Sherlock takes is a sensory battlezone -- Luckily she opted out of having her youngest boy garbed in the traditional pastels of an Omega's Announcing Ceremony, the only homage paid to that tradition is the fine embroidery about his cufflinks.

Relatives with far too many names gather in every corner of the manor, wine glasses brimming, giving congratulations he's not allowed to contradict. (He tried, once, with the an early arrival. His ear still stung from the scolding.)

For hours Sherlock had hidden himself away; those in his house didn't truly care about whether he'd been declared Alpha, Omega, or Other -- All they cared about was staying in the good graces of the Holmes' line -- and chequebooks.

So it was for some time that Sherlock had managed to avoid the inevitable. Until one particularly rosy faced gentleman happened upon fiddling with his violin, idly plucking at the strings (which was drowned out by the in-home group Mummy had playing in the most acoustically sound location).

"So who's the lucky bugger y've got planned to put pups in this one, eh?" The drunkard asked, grinning with far too many teeth.

Sherlock isn't certain what stings worse. The heavy scent of liquor wafting off the man, or the antiquated phrasing. It isn't the first time he's heard someone remark about pups, or litters, for an Omega, but it's the first time he's known it's been directed at him.

The old man continues to grin, as if what he's said is the funniest thing to ever have breath wasted upon it. Sherlock isn't certain when, but suddenly the man drops his glass -- vintage Cabernet Sauvignon spilling over the cream carpeting -- and Sherlock's knuckles have a pleasant burning sensation to them.

"You good for nothin' liddle breedin' whore!" The man's voice turns thunderous in but an instant, and Sherlock knows to trust instinct when it instructs him to run. And to run quickly, through the throngs of guests who have now all turned to see what the commotion is.

 

The man -- whose relation to him Sherlock cannot recall (were they ever introduced? Not a time to worry on such societal conventions) -- bares his teeth in a facsimile of a grin, and they go back to their wines and idle conversation. It won't be the last time Sherlock sees an Alpha's ill-begotten charm in action, and it won't be the last time that he limps back to a dinner party he never wanted to attend.

\-------

Wounds of the flesh have a way of healing that leaves scars in unforeseeable places.

Even those looking for them don't always notice, even when the years drag on and the cracks between 'good' and 'very not good' grow wider and wider.

If only it were a simple as keeping things black and white.

Sherlock doesn't appreciate the grey.

\-----

"SHERLOCK," His mother screams at the bottom the stairs for him to make himself known. Years have passed since the unfortunate banquet -- and he's not been sold off like some broodmare, not yet-- another year of schooling for some year that is supposed to be important is about to begin.

Sherlock can't quite bring himself to care.

A younger, more naive, Sherlock, once had the naivete to _enjoy_ school. To _enjoy_ being around people that weren't his family -- loathsome as they were. He'd been _praised_ for his intelligence, thought to become something great.

Then the testing had happened.

That innocuous little 'Ω' was so much more sinister than anyone thought.

It was wrong.

 _He_ was wrong.

And his classmates knew. Budding Alphas didn't like the queer little Omega posturing in on their games, didn't like the delicate dynamics' ability to turn on the most alphanising charm.

Why should they, after all?

He was a freak.

They could smell it on him.

\------

Another year passes, another year of classes that he can't concentrate on for the leers of those one might consider his peer. But Sherlock knows differently, knows as surely as he knows he isn't an Omega, that they are wrong.

He goes to school more anxious than usual. Over the summer vacation more Alphas will be diagnosed, more Omegas, more Betas, no one will be so willing to be 'neutral'.

No one will be so willing as to deal with his idiosyncrasies.

His fingers worry the hem of shirtsleeves, to the point where his mother bats his hands away lest he fray his uniform before the school year is fully underway. (Not that they couldn't easily afford another one, but his mother mutters something about upholding the family name and so Sherlock shifts his fidgeting to rocking on the balls of his feet.)

He's grown used to the anxiety by now. Feeling as if he's going to vomit at a moment's command, feeling as if he should simply set his wrong, wrong, _wrong_ skin ablaze to escape the trap he's stuck in. But today it's worse.

His stomach is in knots, tied up against itself. He hadn't eaten breakfast, or dinner, and still he'd spent plenty of the night holed up in the bathroom. It wasn't pleasant. He thinks it might be the flu, but the flu means heading back to the doctor's, and so Sherlock would rather infect the school than stay home a day and admit weakness.

He takes advantage of the fact that his mother has never been a very tactile person, and doesn't disclose that he feels warmer than usual. If he needs to he can always sleep in the nurse's office, the kindly beta woman had seen enough of him over the past few years, as his classmates grew more and more aggressive over the fact that he wouldn't just roll over and renounce his 'alpha fantasy'.

She'd seen a lot of his bruises, too, from when he ran his mouth just a _bit_ too long.

– 

The day at school is predictably boring. He misses when it was all so _fascinating_ and _new_. He misses two years ago when he wasn't stuck sitting on the 'Omega' side of the classroom; mostly full of tittering girls who couldn't quite keep their mouths shut long enough for the lecture to be said.

He misses yesterday, when Wilkes wasn't wearing a new cologne so potent it caused droplets of blood to leak from his nose into the textbook opened before him.

Sherlock misses quite a few things, but he also misses the teacher calling his name.

" --olmes? Sherlock? Sherlock Holmesss...?"

The words hiss into the edge of his consciousness, and before Sherlock can retort with anything particularly witty searing pain shoots through his gut, stars not having the decency to dance across his vision as it all goes black.

Nothing.

\---------------------------

When he wakes, hours later, he is at home, in his own bed. His mother is sitting beside him, and she is smiling as if she's just been given the most gracious gift.

He closes his eyes and groans against the unfairness of the world. "... no," it's barely above a whisper, a plea against the obvious. His body is betraying him, and he wants to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who've been waiting since August 2013 for me to update this thing! I know it's been a while and I hope you'll excuse me that real life got in the way of my time to write. I'd also like to say hello/thanks to those of you just hopping on this tale _now_ , as you're equally important. Please don't forget to tell me what you think in the comments, and if you have any questions about certain aspects of society in this AU, feel free to ask them. I might not get back to you asap, but I will see your question, and if the answer isn't being worked into the story or isn't too spoiler-y, perhaps I can give it to you. Well, until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted a fic where Sherlock was trans* in the omegaverse for quite some time, but no one's quite taken to indulging me. Also, I in no way speak for the entirety of trans* experiences and can only extrapolate from the tales friends have told me and what I've read, but at the end of the day, this is still a work of fiction on the internet.


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